One Seventy Two

One Seventy Two

One seventy two

was my aunt's weight

before cancer started

eating her.

We took her to appointments,

and each time presented her license,

her weight there in print,

and she was okay at 172.

At  16, I knew that 172

made a woman

hefty, sturdy,

strong enough to

hold up the world.

When I learned she'd be leaving,

I decided to go too.

I was 132.

She'd take her medicine

in a spoonful of applesauce.

I wouldn't eat a spoonful of anything

more than once a day.

We got weak together.

Our hair fell out.

We became delusional:

Me in a weight competition with her,

thinking that if I was her size or smaller,

and if I was still surviving,

then so could she.

She, telling me pretty lies like:

The doctor says if I drink my Ensure,

I'll be all right.

Sure.

We got down to 118

the month before she left.

I  celebrated my 17th birthday

in bed with her.

Then she said she hated the sticky summer

and died on the 20th of June.

I dropped down to 104

before I decided I'd stick around.

Since then I've gained and lost 50 pounds three times,

but I always come back to 172.

I don't know how else

to be where she was

back when we were okay.